


Changes

by areyoumiserableyet



Series: Occupy Love [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drug Addiction, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Friendship/Love, M/M, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, Social Justice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-22 16:38:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11971380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyoumiserableyet/pseuds/areyoumiserableyet
Summary: March 2011; Present Day6 Months Before OccupyEnjolras and Eponine





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! If you're reading this I hope it means you're reading my fic and in that case, thank you!! This baby has been a long time coming and I'm so excited to finally release her into the wild. This is only part 1 of many for this series, so I hope you enjoy! Come say hi on [tumblr](http://areyoumiserableyet.tumblr.com/) and if you'd like to see my headcanons for these characters, you can find them [here](http://areyoumiserableyet.tumblr.com/tagged/olcharacterstudies)
> 
> Also, thank you thank you thank you to my wonderful beta, Margot! You can find her on Tumblr [here](http://queennsansa.tumblr.com/)
> 
> P.S. For some reason, some lines are maintaining their paragraph indentation when copied over and some are not. If anyone has a fix for this, please let me know! In the meantime, sorry about that!

“I have news for you.”

“Hm?” Enjolras hums noncommittally, his eyes remaining fixated on the laptop in front of him. He knows – vaguely – that Combeferre is sitting across from him and that at some point a cup of coffee has appeared in his hand. He can hear the sound of grinding espresso and the low hiss of the milk frother being cleared out for the next order. But it’s only when Combeferre slides a piece of paper in front of his computer screen that he snaps out of it. “What is this?” he asks, adjusting his reading glasses and peering at the paper through the black frames.

“Just read it, E.”

Enjolras glances up at his friend and then back at the paper, squinting a bit as his eyes rapidly move over the words. “Dear Mr… on behalf… blah blah blah… congratulations… accepted into the _Biomedical Engineering Program at John Hopkins University School of Medicine_ …” he reads, mumbling parts of the letter under his breath. Enjolras reads over those first sentences again in silence. Then again. His heart is beating so fast inside his chest he honestly feels a little faint. He knows he needs to say something – _anything_ – but he can’t make the words come.

“So...?” Combeferre prompts when it is clear Enjolras has become mute. Enjolras swallows hard. Finally, he looks up at his best friend’s expectant face.

“Oh, um. Wow.” _Really_ , Enjolras thought, _that’s all you could muster_?

“I mean, I know it isn't really what we had plan-” At the look on Combeferre’s face, Enjolras snaps out of it.

“Oh, no! No! Congratulations, Ferre! Wow. Seriously, I’m really happy for you!” Enjolras hastens to reply, his words convincing neither himself nor his friend. “Does, um, does Courf know?”

“Yeah, yeah, I called him when I got it in the mail this morning.”

“Oh.”

“Look, Enjolras-” It is at that moment that Courfeyrac comes barreling through the door, the bell above the entrance giving off a tinny chime. Enjolras turns to see Grantaire and Bahorel trailing in behind him, Grantaire’s head thrown back as he laughs at something Bahorel says.

“Hello my beautiful tadpoles!” Courfeyrac yells, the group making their way over to the table Enjolras and Combeferre are currently occupying.

“We can talk later,” Enjolras tells Combeferre before he can finish his sentence. Soon, several other members of their group - _The Friends of the ABC,_ they called themselves – file into the backroom of the ABC Cafe, a charming and grossly overlooked place where they regularly met. It’s situated in lower Manhattan near Zuccotti Park, about a twenty-minute subway ride from campus if you grab the 1 train. It is small and dingy with twinkle lights strung across the ceiling. The floors and walls are covered in wood paneling, giving the cafe a dark, ugly interior, counterbalanced only by industrial lighting and metal tables that tilt the cafe more toward eclectic charm. Besides, the coffee is great and they actually sell beer after four, making it the perfect place for them to get together. Not to mention, it’s where they had met Musichetta.

The group decides to wrap the meeting up earlier than usual that day. It’s not as if they are getting a great deal of work done, anyway, and there are only so many times Enjolras can practice his poli-sci presentation before everyone falls asleep. Besides, no one quite knows how to respond to Combeferre's news. When he'd announced his acceptance into (and plans to attend) John Hopkins come the fall, the reaction had been congratulations all around, but everyone could practically _see_ Enjolras's brain working overtime under his blond curls. So, when Grantaire had suggests they all go out and get wasted in honor of Combeferre, everyone hurriedly agrees. After all, it had been a while since the group had gone out together and with Ferre's news, they finally have a good excuse.

As Enjolras packs up the last of his notes and stuffs them into his shoulder bag, Combeferre approaches him, his brow creased like it does when he’s worried. They are the last two in the ABC (besides Musichetta who still had to finish her shift), which wasn't unusual, but Enjolras assumed he'd have headed out with everyone else being the man of the hour, as it were. He says as much to Combeferre, who shrugs.

“I was just going to check and see if you were okay,” he tells Enjolras. “You were unusually harsh on Courf today.”

“He suggested I do my political science presentation in and I quote, 'nothing but the hair on your head, Goldilocks.' It was foolish and unproductive.”

“Sometimes Courfeyrac says foolish and unproductive things; it's part of his charm.”

“Surely you did not stay behind to talk about how charming Courfeyrac is,” Enjolras replies, pulling on his jacket. “So what is it?”

Instead of replying, Combeferre stares at Enjolras for a few seconds, takes two steps forward and wraps his arms around his shoulders. Enjolras hugs back twice as hard.

“You should probably get to your party,” he comments after a few moments and with a watery laugh, Combeferre pulls back, taking his glasses off to dab at his eyes. Neither of them mention it.

“You going?” Combeferre asks, putting his glasses back on and righting himself.

“Of course, I will meet up with you all later. I have a few things to get done first.”

“I'll see you later then.”

“See you.” Enjolras waits until Combeferre has gotten his things and left before slinging his bag over his shoulder. He’s about to head out when he hears a throat clear behind him and turns around to find Musichetta staring at him with a mixture of fondness and pity. Wordlessly, she places a to-go coffee in his hand, kisses him on the cheek, and ushers him out of the ABC.


	2. Two

Eponine likes to take baths when she’s sad. Long, long baths with the water scalding hot and the lights turned low. And if she is feeling particularly glum she'll fill the tub to the brim and add enough bubble solution so that only her head pops out over the foam.

This is the position she finds herself in after getting home from her shift at the restaurant she waitresses at: submerged in the bath, her eyes closed as she tries to think about nothing at all. Not the stacks of bills piling up on her kitchen table. Not the fact that she’s been bouncing from shitty job to shitty job since she was sixteen. Not... _him_. Or those damn text messages.

_Ponine, I need to talk to you!!!!!!!!_ the first text had read. Marius had an affinity for exclamation points, but eight seemed a little over-the-top, even for him. _I think I'm going to ask Cosette to marry me!!! Please call me asap!!!!!_ Then, _Oh and I miss you!!! :)_

“Ponine, I’m home!” Grantaire calls through the house, the sound of the door slamming shut and his keys dropping onto the kitchen counter breaking into Eponine's relaxation. "Ep! You here?"

"I'm in the bath!" she yells back, thoroughly annoyed. There was no way she was going to be able to relax now - not with Grantaire's loud ass banging around the house. Just as she’s about to drain the tub, Grantaire barges into the bathroom, all wild curls and crooked grin.

"Guess what?" he asks without preamble, perching himself on the side of the tub. Eponine would scold Grantaire for coming in without knocking, but she knew it was no use. Grantaire wouldn't know manners if they got him a drink and told him to make himself comfortable.

With a deep sigh to let her friend know exactly how agitated she is, Eponine sinks lower into the tub so she is covered neck down in bubbles. "What?"

"Combeferre is going to John Hopkins in the fall," Grantaire says, a hint of sadness in his voice.

"Good for him, bad for us," Eponine comments, feeling conflicted. Half of her wants to be ecstatic for her friend, but the other half doesn't want to see him go. Eponine knows graduation is coming up for a lot of their friends, which unfortunately means the little bubble they all have been living in together for the past few years is about to pop.

Normally, Eponine didn’t let herself get too close to people. Sure, there was Grantaire, Jehan, Bahorel, and Feuilly - her family - but as a general rule of thumb, Eponine liked to keep people at arm’s length. She found it was easier that way, less painful when those people inevitably disappeared from her life. But Eponine had broken her own rule for the others - inviting a whole new group of people in, giving them to power to break her heart but trusting them not to. And now...

"Devastating for Enjolras," Grantaire adds solemnly. They are both quiet for a moment and then Grantaire is slapping his thighs and standing, a smile back on his face.

"Anyway, I rode with Bahorel to the shop after the meeting and picked up Chinese," he says. "Hurry up and get dressed, I need to talk to you about something and no one likes cold sweet and sour chicken."

Despite Grantaire's insistence on speediness, Eponine takes her time getting out of the bath. She couldn't get her mind off of Marius – with his dopey smile and his kind eyes and his big hands. With his stupid beard and his stupid dog and his stupid, stupid face. _Marius_ – who treats Eponine like she is interesting and important and...loved.

The first time Eponine had met Marius, she had gotten him high. At that time, she was working at a diner over in Crown Heights when Marius came in alone one night. Eponine noticed him right away, not only because he was completely out of place in that shitty diner wearing his pressed khakis and polo shirt, but because he looked incredibly sad as he took a seat in one of the corner booths, immediately resting his elbows on the laminate tabletop and burying his face in his hands.

“Didn’t your mother teach you no elbows on the table?” was the first thing Eponine said once she finally got the courage to wait on him. Eponine wasn’t very good at dealing with…  _ feelings… _ but he had been sitting there for a while and Eponine figured that it was, you know, her job.

“No because she’s dead,” he stated flatly, not yet looking up at Eponine. As soon as the words left his mouth, his shoulders stiffened. He snapped his head up, looking frantically at Eponine’s wide eyes. “Oh my god, I am so sorry,” he hurried, rubbing his hands over his face roughly. “That was not - I didn’t - I’m just -”

“It’s all good,” Eponine interrupted. “I get it,” she added after a pause.

After that, Eponine grabbed two coffees and two slices of apple pie, leading Marius out back behind the diner to the picnic table where employees took their smoke breaks. She pulled out a joint from inside her cigarette pack - one she kept there for emergencies - and got Marius high for the first time in his life. 

Turned out, weed made Marius chatty, and the two of them sat together for the entirety of Eponine’s break, passing the joint back and forth and eating their pie. Marius revealed that it was the anniversary of his mother’s death and that he had spent the entire day at the zoo in Prospect Park because his mother used to take him there when he was a child. 

“I thought the monkeys would make me feel better,” he had said, laughing softly to himself.

“Damn monkeys,” Eponine teased, winking at him as she exhaled the smoke from her lungs.

“It’s okay, you know?” Marius had replied, looking at Eponine with a grateful sort of smile. “Turns out I didn’t need the monkeys. I had you.”

Eponine’s eyes snap open at the sound of Grantaire’s voice, breaking into her reverie. “EPONINE! Hurry the hell up! I have to piss and I’m thirty seconds away from doing it in the kitchen sink!” 


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for homophobic language

_ Breathe in…breathe out...breathe in…breathe out...  _ Enjolras repeats this mantra over and over again in his head as he takes the train home from the ABC, his eyes squeezed tight.

He was panicking.

He'd been having these bouts of anxiety much more than he wanted to admit lately, and though it was embarrassing, he knew exactly why.

Enjolras, the Friends of the ABC's _Fearless Leader,_ is actually a terrified child.

It’s March, which means there are less than two months until graduation. Less than two months until Courfeyrac moves back to California to jump-start his film career. Less than two months until Feuilly, finally, after seven years of being forced to put work first and school second, gets his degree. Less than two months until Cosette and Marius inevitably start their lives together. Less than two months until Joly finishes his first year of med school and Bossuet follows through with his plans to ask him and Chetta to marry him. Less than two months until Combeferre moves to _Baltimore_.

Less than two months until everything Enjolras has dreamed of building comes crashing down around him.

It makes Enjolras' stomach ache to think about how he hadn't the slightest idea what he would be doing a year from then. Bussing tables? Delivering pizzas? Working for his  _ father _ ?

What is worse, really, is that Enjolras hadn't done anything he'd set out to do. When he, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac established the Friends of the ABC their sophomore year at university, they'd had plans to change the world.

Sure, they'd planned rallies and protests. They'd volunteered their time and money to those in need and stood up for the disenfranchised. They'd discussed and debated and educated as many minds as they could, but it wasn't enough. To Enjolras, this wasn't just something to pass the time in school; it was what he wanted to do with his _life_.

Enjolras wishes he could say his desire -  _ his need _ \- to help others came from his parents. He wishes he could say despite the wealth, the privilege, and the opportunities that his parents still managed to instill in him values of kindness and generosity. He wishes he could say that, but he would be lying. His mother tried, he supposes. She had spent most of Enjolras’s childhood in a Xanax-induced haze with an unfeeling, uncaring husband who worked too much and slept with too many other women. Enjolras was really a walking, talking cliche, destined to end up exactly like his father. Except...Enjolras was different. He always had been, ever since he could remember, and he was only eight when he sat his mother down and tearfully told her that he wasn’t like the other boys at his school. She had cried, too, undoubtedly grieving the life her son was supposed to have - a life complete with a beautiful wife, beautiful children, and a beautiful mansion to house them all in. His father had yelled when he found out, screaming that no child of his would be a faggot while his mother sat silent in the other room. 

After that, Enjolras became numb, going through the motions of his life and doing whatever his parents wanted of him. It was in high school that Enjolras met Courfeyrac and Combeferre - the three of them wide-eyed freshmen who spent their days reading to one another and being shunned by the rest of their classmates. Those two saved his life. Without even knowing it, they reached down into Enjolras’s darkest depths and saved him from drowning.

And now? They were leaving. In two months, the three of them would be apart for the first time in nearly eight years.

Enjolras’s eyes fly open just as the train stops at his station, and a wave of nausea overcomes him. He elbows his way through the crowd of people before vomiting violently in the nearest trashcan. A few people spare him a sidelong glance, but no one asks him if he's okay. He's not sure what he would have said anyway. 

The evening air is a little chilly against Enjolras's skin as he walks from the station to his apartment. His phone rings as he’s a block away from home, and he pulls it out of his pocket and answers without looking at the screen.

“Hello?” he says, anticipating Courfeyrac or Combeferre or any one of his other friends. Instead, the replied hello comes from his father.

“Hello, son. How are you?”

“Fine,” Enjolras replies shortly. He didn't know what his father wanted, but he knew he wasn't calling for idle chatter.

“I'm well, thanks for asking. So I hear Combeferre got into John Hopkins.”

“How do you know about that?”

“His father called to tell me, of course. Imagine my embarrassment when I had to tell him that no my son had not, to my knowledge, applied to any law schools yet.”

“Dad, I've told you, I don't want to be a lawyer-”

“Oh right, right, of course,” his father snarls, his voice darkened with a humor that was not at all funny. “You want to _save the world;_ you want to _help people,_ huh? Listen to me, son, the world is shit and always will be shit, and there's nothing anyone can do about that, much less a bleeding heart, rich kid with an inflated ego and a deluded sense of reality. So what I'm going to do is make a few calls and pull a few strings, and you _will_ be attending Harvard Law in the fall and you _will_ become a partner in my firm, do you understand?”

“Dad-”

“I said _do you understand_?”

“I am not becoming a lawyer, Dad.” There's a heavy silence on the other end.

“Well, then you can kiss your trust fund goodbye,” his father replies, his voice an eerie calm.

“I don't care about that money.”

“Oh, really? You don't care about the money your grandfather worked his ass off for seventy years to earn? The money that's put a roof over your head, clothes on your back, and food in your stomach for the twenty-two years you've been on this godforsaken earth? The money that's paid for you to go to your hippie, “progressive” school and dick around? You don't care about that?”

“That is not fair. That's-that's not what I was-”

“You want to end up worthless like your street rat friends?”

“I-”

“ _Grow up_ , Enjolras.” And with that, his father hangs up.


	4. Four

A little while later Eponine and Grantaire are sunk down into their old, ratty sofa, feet propped up on the make-shift coffee table that’s actually just an extra piece of countertop Musichetta scored them when the  _ ABC _ did remodeling 6 months prior, propped up on stacks and stacks of Grantaire's books. Parks and Recreation is crackling on the ancient TV Bahorel swiped off a street corner last month. He was so excited once Feuilly rigged it up to “borrow” their neighbor’s cable and they were able to watch something other than infomercials and PBS. Right now, though, neither Eponine nor Grantaire are watching it. Instead they’re arguing. If you can call tired and only mildly annoyed banter while they dig out the last bits of vegetable lo mein from the bottom of their take-out containers “arguing.” Grantaire and Eponine don’t fight.

“You shouldn't have read my damn texts, R.”

“I didn't mean to, Ep! Your phone wouldn't stop going off, and I glanced down and saw them!”

“Whatever, let's just not talk about it.”

“I think we need to talk about it...”

“We really, really don't need to talk about it.”

“I'd like to talk about it.”

“We're not talkin’ about it.”

“Eponine.”

“Grantaire.”

“Ep, the dude you've been madly in love with for the past three years is asking his girlfriend to marry him. We need to talk about it.”

“Why? Because you're such a fucking expert on unrequited love?”

A pause. “Ouch.”

Wordlessly, Eponine leans forward and grabs her half-empty container of sweet and sour chicken from the coffee table and hands it to Grantaire. A peace offering.

“So, everyone's supposed to get piss drunk tonight to celebrate Ferre. You in?” Grantaire asks after the brief tension at Eponine's comment subsides. He nudges her calf with his socked foot.

“And pass up the opportunity to see Bossuet wasted after Chetta's enforced dry spell? Not a chance.” She nudges back.

“We should stop at the liquor store on our way. We need vodka tonight and you know Chetta never keeps it in the house after last time.”

“So we're going to JBMs?” _JBM’s_ is what the gang had become accustomed to calling Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta’s apartment.

“Musain first but I'm sure we'll end up there.”

“Cool. What about the boys?”

“Feuilly is working late so he’s meeting us. Jehan and Bahorel should be home any minute.”

“I'm planning on blacking out so I'm not wearing heels.”

“It's okay, neither am I.” Eponine laughs at that and attempts to push herself out of the couch oblivion she'd sunken into, and succeeds in standing, finally, with the help of Grantaire's hand on her bum pushing her upward. This was a tried and true practice for them. Let's just say they really need a new couch.

“I'm going to go get ready, then,” says Eponine. “Need help up?”

“Nah, I'm gonna sit here and finish my beer. I'll yell if I'm stuck.”

“Oh, don't forget, bills tomorrow. Remind the others.” Grantaire acknowledges the information with a grunt and a wave of his beer bottle. Eponine turns to go but before she reaches the doorway, she stops and faces Grantaire. “Sorry, R,” she says quietly. Grantaire glances up at her, his lips quirking in a sad sort of smile.

“Me too.”

Eponine walks into the kitchen just as Bahorel is opening the door, a cigarette perched between his lips and his ancient cellphone tucked between his shoulder and his ear. His long hair is knotted high on his head, strands falling messily around his face. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he’s saying, kicking the door shut with his foot and dropping his bags on the kitchen table. “I almost got all of it - yeah, uh huh, cool, cool.” Eponine walks over to him, pulling the cigarette from between his lips and taking a drag. Bahorel smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and kisses Eponine on the cheek. “Listen, I’m wasting minutes. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He hangs up the phone and sighs heavily. “Hey, honey.”

“Hi,” Eponine says softly. It felt like it had been ages since she’d seen Bahorel; he’d been spending all of his time between his two jobs at the hair salon and the autoshop. One glance at his grease covered hands tells Eponine which one he’d been at today.

“Who’s ‘at?” Grantaire calls from the living room, no doubt still nestled into his couch cocoon. 

“Your better half!” Eponine calls back and Bahorel chuckles from where he is digging in the fridge for any sign of dinner. “There’s extra take out in the living room,” Eponine suggests. 

“Ah,” Bahorel spins on his heel and takes two large steps toward her, letting the fridge shut behind him. “Bless you.” He clasps his huge, dirty hands together in front of him and bows dramatically. He’s almost out of the room when Eponine stops him.

“Hey, Rel?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you...can you do me a favor?” Bahorel must have heard something off in Eponine’s voice because he turns fully to face her, his brow furrowed in what looks like concern...or confusion. Or both. 

“Course, honey.” And that’s how Eponine finds herself sitting in one of their kitchen chairs, a towel wrapped around her shoulders and Bahorel standing behind her with scissors in his hand. “You sure about this?” he asks and Eponine nods in return.

“I think it’s a great idea,” says Jehan, who had gotten home from work while Bahorel was showering off the day’s dirt. “You’ll look lovely.”

“Jehan knows best,” Eponine answers, winking at them. She closes her eyes as Bahorel counts down from three...two...one... _ snip _ . Eponine reopens her eyes to see her long hair, still tied in a ponytail, dangling from Bahorel’s hand in front of her nose and very much not on her head. 


	5. Five

Two hours and eleven text messages later, Enjolras decides he can't put off attending Combeferre's party any longer. He shuts his laptop and quickly changes into a pair of his nicer jeans and a red Henley before texting Combeferre to ask where they had ended up.

_Pre-gaming at the Musain got out of hand. Relocated to JBM's place,_ is his reply.

The “got out of hand” comment was disconcerting, given that it was only eleven o'clock, but Combeferre seemed to be faring well enough, so that was...something.

When Enjolras finally joins the party, it’s in full-swing, which means everyone is already hammered beyond recognition. Courfeyrac spots him first because of course he does, and he squeals loudly before barreling over and enveloping Enjolras in a bone-crushing hug.

“ _ Eh! Eh! Pon atención! ATTENTION, EVERYONE! _ ” he yells, weaving in and out of Spanish like he often did when he was drunk. He’s trying desperately to be heard over the music that’s blaring loudly through the speaker system. “ _ ENJOLRAS IS HERE! _ ”

“ _ ENJOLRAS! _ ” the party choruses back, drinks raised haphazardly in the air. Enjolras's mouth quirks slightly, despite himself.

“Hola mi amigo muy guapo! Te ves estupenda!” Courf says, fawning over Enjolras. He always became very affectionate when drunk, prone to giving his friends long, in-depth compliments in Spanish. It is no wonder everyone loves him.

Enjolras laughs in response, which seems to please Courfeyrac as he leans over and plants a sloppy kiss on Enjolras's cheek.

“Muchas gracias, Courf. I'm going to get myself a drink! I'll find you later, yeah?” Enjolras tells Courfeyrac, having to yell in his ear to be heard and Courf flashes him his brightest smile in return.

Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta's apartment is a two bedroom, the master bedroom housing a huge, specially ordered bed as well as a guest bedroom which was occupied by one friend or another more times than not. There is an expansive kitchen off the living room that Joly and Musichetta cook in almost every night. (Bossuet was all but banned from using any kitchenware.)

Strangely, their bathroom is tiny but contains a beautiful, antique claw-foot tub that the three somehow manage to squeeze into all at once. They could easily afford something much more extravagant, what with Bossuet's family being who they are and Joly's also being considerably well-off, but Musichetta incessantly rejected purchasing one that was bigger than they needed. Enjolras likes their apartment a lot; it’s the homiest of all of their friends and Musichetta always makes sure it’s open to anyone who needs a place to stay and Joly and Bossuet always makes sure it’s open to anyone who needs a place to party.

Enjolras makes his way into the kitchen, briefly stopping to talk to a sober Feuilly who had just gotten off work. He finally finds Combeferre sitting atop the kitchen counter, his hair a mess and a bottle of wine that’s worryingly close to empty in his hand.

“Enjolras!” Combeferre yells excitedly, hopping down from the counter and swaying slightly. Enjolras reaches out to grab his elbow, letting him get his bearings. It wasn't often Combeferre got drunk – buzzed sure, but rarely drunk - so it was nice to see him let loose a little. “Thanks! I'm glad you came!”

“I told you I would,” Enjolras replies.

“I know but you always say that.”

“Well, I am here now. Are you having fun?”

“Loads. You drinking tonight?”

“I'm not sure yet,” Enjolras replies honestly. “I actually...I wanted to ask you something.”

“Shoot!” Combeferre says as he takes a swig of wine.

“Do you...I mean, are you...do you _want_ to go to John Hopkins?” Enjolras asks and the smile on Combeferre's face falls a little.

“You and I both know I don't really have a choice.” Enjolras stomach twists into knots at that but before he can reply, Grantaire comes barreling into the kitchen, Eponine perched on his back.

“Enjy!” they say in unison, knowing how much Enjolras hates that nickname. He lets it slide, just this once. He doesn't have it in him to argue with anyone right now.

“You are far too sober, Oh Fearless Leader,” Grantaire says, plopping Eponine onto the counter next to where Combeferre is leaning against it. “Would you like me to make you a drink?”

Enjolras looks at Combeferre, watches him throw his head back and laugh at something Eponine says. She throws her arm around Ferre's shoulder and leans into him, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the collar on his shirt. “You know what?” Enjolras says, looking back at Grantaire. “Yeah, I'd love a drink.”


	6. Six

“So...like, can I call you McDreamy?” Eponine asks and Combeferre chokes on the sip of wine he'd just taken. He and Eponine are sitting on the roof of Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta's apartment, the party still raging underneath them. She had dragged him out there so she could smoke a cigarette, but that had been over half an hour ago and now the two of them are just sitting together, Eponine's fishnet-covered legs thrown over Ferre's and a second bottle of wine being passed between them. 

Her and Combeferre were close – because their entire group was close in a way that would be freaky to the outside world – but they weren’t  _ close.  _ Tonight, however, Eponine had seen a new side of Combeferre and she was liking it very much. 

Back at the Musain, Eponine had been standing at the bar waiting for her and Jehan’s drinks when the obligatory creep sauntered up and offered to buy them for her. Eponine thanked him but declined, citing that she was there with a group of her friends. The guy insisted, crowding Eponine’s space, his alcohol soaked breath hot on her cheek.

“Dude, seriously,” she said sharply, pushing slightly against the guy’s shoulder. By then, her drinks had arrived and as Eponine turned to rejoin her friends, the guy grabbed her arm - hard.

“Come on, babe,” he said, his words casual but his grip on her arm anything but. Eponine opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted by Combeferre’s voice behind her. 

“Do you need help with those?” he asked, nodding at the two drinks in her hands, the underlying message to Eponine clear. Before she could respond, the guy released his hold, smiling up at Combeferre, who was considerably taller. 

“Oh, I'm sorry, man,” he laughed easily, extending his hand for Combeferre to shake. “I didn't realize she was taken.” Combeferre clasped his hand in the other guy’s, pulling him closer so he could speak in his ear. 

“How about next time you respect the woman and not the boyfriend she may or may not have,” he said, his voice level. Something in the way Combeferre spoke to him or looked at him must have spooked the guy because what Combeferre did next was a new level of badass that even Eponine was impressed. Without taking his eyes off his face, Combeferre reached down and took his unopened beer bottle from where it was dangling at the man’s side. Eponine watched, a small, surprised smile on her lips as Combeferre twisted off the cap and tossed it at the other man, who watched - stunned - as Combeferre took a swig. 

“Uh...I...what?”

“You know…McDreamy...like from Grey's Anatomy?” Eponine quirks her lip and absent-mindedly scoots closer to him.

“The medical book?” Combeferre asks, passing the wine bottle over so Eponine can take a drink.

“Oh my God, are you kidding? The television show, Ferre! McDreamy is the hunky neurosurgeon! R and I marathoned the shit outta that show one winter and got completely hooked. It's terribly melodramatic and probably completely inaccurate, you know, medically speaking but _fuck_ if it isn't addicting,” Eponine explains, downing a huge gulp of wine.

“Oh, I'm not going to be a neurosurgeon,” Combeferre replies, and Eponine can tell he didn't know what to do with the compliment she'd just paid him. She isn't sure if it’s the two bottles of wine or the way he looks so unknowingly handsome in his Oxford shirt, but something about Combeferre tonight was getting Eponine all kinds of hot.

It took her several moments of staring at the movement of Combeferre's lips for her to realize he was actually speaking to her. And expecting a reply.

“Wait, what?”

“Sorry, was I boring you?” he asks, not in a sarcastic way but as if he was sincerely worried he wasn't being interesting. It’s so utterly Combeferre and so utterly adorable, Eponine thinks she may burst of sexual frustration.

“No, I was just...distracted. What were you saying?”

“Oh, I, uh...” Combeferre takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, his hands shaking a little. “I was just saying that I was actually accepted into the Biomedical Engineering Program. Basically, I would be developing medical equipment for a variety of disciplines. Anything from your typical MRI machine to biocompatible prostheses to imaging equipment used for monitoring regenerative tissue growth. You know, that kind of stuff.” And then he hiccups. And Eponine falls in love, just a little.

“Let's go inside,” she replies seriously, giving Combeferre the best bedroom-eyes she can muster. She probably looks a little scary. She’s very drunk.

The face Combeferre makes in return is a mixture of surprise, excitement, and fear.

Eponine could stare at that face all day.


	7. Seven

Enjolras is a few drinks in - rather a few  _ Grantaire _ drinks in, which means something else entirely - when he finds himself in the bathroom, his hands gripping the sink.

He is trying not to think. Or panic.

Granted, the alcohol was helping with that endeavor, but he is still enough in his right mind to have Combeferre’s words running through his head. 

_ You and I both know I don't really have a choice _ . 

Those words make Enjolras’s stomach turn in a way that had nothing to do with the vodka he's been drinking. Enjolras hated himself for not being better. For not working harder and being smarter and anything else that may have contributed to his utter failure of a life. It was his fault Combeferre was moving to Baltimore to go to a school he had no desire to attend, to start a career he had no interest in beginning. He had promised him - all of them - that they would do great things. Big, important things that would change the world. Instead, he had nothing to show for himself after spending four years leading these people - people who so desperately wanted to change the world with him. 

Enjolras jumps as the bathroom door swings open, Grantaire standing there, his hair a mess and pink high on his cheeks. 

“Oh, uh, sorry,” he mumbles as he goes to close the door. He stops short, however, doing a double-take at Enjolras. “Um, are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” Enjolras replies, already pulling his face back into careful stoicism. The last thing he needs is for Grantaire to see him like this. 

Grantaire stares at Enjolras for a long time and Enjolras feels himself go hot underneath his gaze. He turns back to the sink and begins washing his hands, but he feels Grantaire’s eyes boring into him all the same. “I said I was fine,” he snaps, the words coming out before he can stop them. 

“I know,” Grantaire answers, unfazed by Enjolras’s outburst. He steps into the small bathroom, temporarily crowding Enjolras against the sink as he squeezes the door shut behind him. “I'm not, though. Courfeyrac busted out the karaoke machine and I really cannot sit through yet another rendition of ‘My Heart Will Go On.’”

Enjolras laughs in spite of himself as Grantaire perches on the side of the tub. “What - you don't have any ballads you'd like to butcher tonight?”

“I am offended, sir!” Grantaire gasps, clutching his heart dramatically. “I happen to have an impeccable repertoire and an astonishing range.”

“And yet, we’re all still banned from that karaoke bar near campus,” Enjolras teases, feeling himself become a little lighter in Grantaire’s presence. 

“As I recall, that had more to do with Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta’s drunken PDA than my amazing performances,” he replies, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of alcohol and mirth. Enjolras feels his shoulders relax at Grantaire’s easy smile. 

He moves across the bathroom and sits himself on the edge of the tub next to Grantaire, their shoulders brushing. Outside the bathroom, he can hear his friends laughing and the dull thud of the music. One of them is singing through the karaoke system - Jehan, he thinks, but he can't be sure. “Besides,” Grantaire continues, slowly slumping himself all the way into the tub, his back resting against one side and his legs dangling over the other. “That is not the first place we’ve been banned from and certainly will not be the last.”

A silence hangs in the air at that - a simple statement that hit Enjolras like a ton of bricks because in reality, it very well could be. Soon, their group would be dissolving, dismantling piece by piece as everyone is forced to move on and start their lives outside of one another. Enjolras mimicks Grantaire’s motions, lowering himself into the tub next to him. “I’m not fine, you know,” Enjolras murmurs, refusing to look at Grantaire.

“I know,” he replies softly, his voice a deep rumble in his chest. Enjolras chances a look at him - his face is so close to his own, and Enjolras can make out the dark circles under his eyes and the shadow starting to appear on his shaved face. Grantaire is looking at him - he was always looking at him - and for once Enjolras doesn't shy away from the attention. The two of them sit there for a few breaths, Enjolras letting his eyes roam over every inch of Grantaire’s face while the other man sits perfectly still, his eyes remaining fixed on Enjolras’s own. “I really believed I could change things,” he says, so soft it was almost a whisper.

“You still can-”

“Oh please,” Enjolras huffs, laughter in his eyes as he pulls his gaze from Grantaire’s and looks straight ahead at the doorway. “You don’t believe that. You don’t believe in anything.”

“I believe in you,” Grantaire replies. The answer is immediate and resolute - he didn’t have to think about it. Enjolras freezes in place, and he hears Grantaire swallow deeply next to him. Enjolras’s heart is racing as he turns to face Grantaire again. As their eyes meet, Grantaire smiles - the slightest curve of his mouth - and slowly, he raises his hand level to Enjolras’s face. He pauses, his hand suspended in the air between them, like he isn't sure if he can touch Enjolras or not. Then, Grantaire wraps his finger around on a loose strand of Enjolras’s hair - a touch so gentle Enjolras isn't even sure it’s happening. Enjolras opens his mouth to speak, not quite knowing what's going to come out -

“I-”

“You-”

“Oh, whoops!”

Both men jump violently at the intrusion, Grantaire pulling his hand away as if he’d been burned. They turn to see Musichetta standing in the doorway, her face a little flushed and a drink close to spilling in her hand. “Sorry to interrupt boys,” she says, keeping her face fixed into a casual smile. “Jehan wanted me to find R - they need you to roll them a joint.”

“Duty calls,” Grantaire replies, pulling himself out of the tub. He follows Musichetta out of the bathroom, not looking back at Enjolras. Not even once. 


	8. Eight

Eponine has every intention of taking Combeferre straight to the nearest bedroom when they rejoin the party, but it felt like something significant that she couldn't name had changed between them out on the roof. Combeferre, ever the gentleman, doesn't question it when Eponine leads him to the sofa so they can join the conversation happening between Jehan and Enjolras about the disastrous consequences of fracking. For his part, Combeferre becomes immediately engrossed in the subject, but Eponine only pretends to listen as her eyes follow Grantaire around the room, waiting. As soon as she notices him tell Bossuet he was going to get another drink, Eponine jumps up to get there first, hoping to corner him into submission so she can pick his brain.

“R!” Eponine yell-whispers from where she is hiding under the kitchen table. A more sober Eponine would have realized the ridiculousness of the situation but she was about two bottles in at this point. Thankfully, Grantaire is equally plastered.

“Eponine! My darling!” he yells, putting the cap back on the bottle of Svedka they'd bought. “Top shelf liquor, bottom shelf price,” was sort of their motto for life, as it were.

“Shhh! Get down here!” Grantaire does as he’s told, crawling across the kitchen floor and crouching in the available spot next to Eponine.

“What's up?” he asks.

“His face, Grantaire. His _face_.”

“Uh...whose face?”

“Combeferre. His face.”

Grantaire rubs his hands through his hair. “You're going to have to give me something else to work with here, Eponine. Like maybe actual sentences. What's wrong with Combeferre's face?”

“Nothing, that's the problem. _Absolutely nothing!_ ”

“Ohhhhhhh,” Grantaire says, dramatically dragging out the syllable. Eponine rolls her eyes and elbows him in the ribs. “So, the problem is not _his face_ , but that you wanna _sit on_ his face.”

“Oh my god, R, no! Well, I mean yes, but no. He's just so hot.”

“So fuck him?”

“No! I can't fuck him!”

“Why not? It’s not as if this group hasn’t had its fair share of drunken hookups.” Eponine doesn't reply, but one look at her face and Grantaire doesn't need one. “Oh my god...you _like_ him.”

“What? No, I don't.”

“Yes, you totally like him! There are practically hearts in your eyes right now. I have to tell Jehan!” Grantaire makes a move to leave their under-the-table hideout but Eponine pinches him before he can escape.

“You are not telling anyone anything, _do you understand_?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Grantaire pouts, rubbing the afflicted spot on his arm.

“Good,” she replies, her face set into Very Serious Mode.

Which makes Eponine rolling out from under the table and all the way across the kitchen floor that much funnier.

There are tears streaming down Grantaire's face by the time Eponine rolls all the way to the doorway leading to the living room. She’s stopped short however, as she runs into a pair of legs that belong to...Combeferre.

“Uh, what's going on?” he asks, taking in the scene before him. For Grantaire's part, he merely busts out in renewed laughter, banging his head on the table he is still seated under.

“ _Your face!_ ” Eponine cries, laughing hysterically. “Look at his _face_ , Grantaire!”

Combeferre, thankfully, is too drunk to question it further. He helps Eponine to her feet and leads her out of the room, but not before Grantaire calls out, “He's chivalrous, Eponine!  _ Chivalrous _ !”


End file.
